


The Pain of Five

by sallysorrell



Series: Half of a Life [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John Watson, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Feels, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:42:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John found it hard to think rationally - or to think at all - after watching his best friend die. 'No,' he told himself, 'I didn't watch him die.  He didn't die.'<br/>Examines John and Sherlock's lives after the Fall, to cover each stage of mourning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pain of Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnonymousSong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSong/gifts).



 

_Denial_

_He didn’t see me_ , Sherlock thought, _He can’t see me.  He couldn’t, and he didn’t. He won’t._

Sherlock sat in a dark, abandoned corner of the morgue, wiping his hands and preparing to purge the life-saving solutions from his system.  Far too many blood-thinners, pain-killers, and sleep-aids.  Their mixture was a dangerous miracle.  His head throbbed, his heart shivered, and his stomach spun.

_I should be dead.  He thinks I’m dead, and he’s right._ He leaned over the sink, _I should be.  I am._ He coughed, and the pain was unbearable, _I must be._

John was silent, and entirely numb.  All possible tears had left him. 

Mrs Hudson watched from the doorway as he shook.  His hand recollected its nervous tremor, and his legs collapsed beneath him.  His sobs were dry and desperate.

“He can’t be dead,” John wailed.  If he chanted it enough, if he cried it and yelled it and wished it and prayed it, it _must_ become true.  John considered his faith, shaking along with the rest of him, or buried with a body that _didn't_ belong to his best friend.

“You saw him, John,” Mrs Hudson’s voice was gentle, but also stained with sadness.

“No,” the word was a hook in John’s lips, drawing him away from the truth, “No, I didn’t.”

_Anger_

Sherlock tore the cheap curtains from the hostel’s only window.  He growled at them, merely for existing, and fell to the frail mattress. 

He had missed his first target.  His gun, which he was admittedly unaccustomed to, leaned on the windowsill to cool.

His world-tour was not for sightseeing, as Mycroft often reminded him, but for crumpling up Moriarty’s web and disposing of it.  Spraying it with water, until the centre collapsed, and the other strings fell valiantly around it.

He would not leave his room.  He could not try again.  Back to the borrowed laptop, to schedule another flight, and find don’t-ask-questions accommodation.  Cheap, quiet, and dirty.  Covered in cobwebs.

John did not leave his room, either.  His own bedroom, just above Sherlock’s.  He kept the door locked, but he only stared at the doorknob, in case someone would break in.

_Who?_ He thought, reaching to check it for the thirty-second time, _Why would anyone want anything to do with me?_

Everything upset him, but especially the promise of pity.  He checked the door again; still locked.

“No one,” he leaned into his tear-ravaged pillow, to muffle the shouting, “I don’t want any _god-damned help_.”

This would be news for his therapist.  With a sick smile, he recalled their upcoming appointment, and promised to tell her this, too.

_Bargaining_

“I _need_ to see him!” Sherlock’s face was paler than ever, and newly scarred.  With stormy eyes, he tried to drown his brother.  To shove him into agreement.

Mycroft, though, did not move.  Not at all.  He stared past his younger brother, and did not blink, even when Sherlock slumped over and spat the words at his face.

“You’ll have to settle for me, I’m afraid,” said Mycroft, interlacing his fingers, “Took rather a lot of trouble for me to meet you.”

“I am not _interested_ in _your_ trouble,” Sherlock’s growl was icy, “I need to see John.”

Mycroft shook his head and pressed his lips together until they were nearly white.  Sherlock recalled this display of disappointed fury from his childhood, and altered his entire presence; he sat in the chair across from Mycroft, and softened his eyes and voice:

“Then _help_ me,” he begged.  The words were gentle, and separated by terrified pauses.

“I _am._ ” Mycroft borrowed the brisk tone, “I _always_ help you, Sherlock.  The _least_ you can do is shut _up_ and appreciate it.”

John apologized to his therapist, several times in quick succession.

“But I don’t _need_ help,” he assured her.

She shook her head and waited for him to speak again.

“Sherlock is,” he began, with a great and hopeful breath.  He could not complete the sentence.  His throat was frozen.

“Yes, John?” she glanced up from the notepad.

“He’s not here.  Not right now.  Not, um, with me.”

“The past-tense, John, is helpful.”

“He _was_ dead, then,” muttered John, “Sorry.”

“He _is_.  You need to say that he _is_.”

“No,” John stood, “Not today.  Tomorrow.”

_Depression_

The morning was cold and quiet.

Sherlock stared through the taxi window.  He _knew_ he was following John too closely.  He knew it, but he did not stop himself.  

His mind was full of John.  Every room of the Palace was cluttered with his image and habits and preferences.  And history.

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears, but he did not allow them to fall.  The car rambled past the cemetery, where John was shaking against the slanderous headstone, and rubbing flint from his fingertips.  The cane waited nearby.  John’s hand would not cooperate, and he struggled to stand.

John’s trek home was miserable.  _Everything_ was miserable.

When he saw his reflection in passing windows, he would glare at it until they were separate. 

He did not feel hungry anymore; he felt nauseous.  On the days when hunger overcame him as a necessity, he would eat whatever Mrs Hudson made for him.

One particular bowl of soup, while it comforted his bones and rekindled his stomach, took him eight hours to eat.  Whenever Mrs Hudson checked on him, she would offer to microwave the bowl.  He liked it better when it was warm, but could not find the strength to walk to the kitchen on his own.  The cane offered no assistance; only mocking.

_Acceptance_

“Soon,” Mycroft’s voice crackled through the phone-speakers.  Sherlock offered a smile as he ended the call.

_Soon_ , his thoughts recited.  It was the answer to every question that paraded around his Palace.

He would see John, soon.  Things would be back to normal, soon.

Sherlock _needed_ normal.  Although he hated routines, he adored familiarity.

John was normal and John was familiar.  He needed John.

There was one more name on his list.  One more bullet in his briefcase.  One more person had to die before he could return, safely and excitedly, to _John._

John learned, whenever he spoke to Sherlock, to use the past-tense.

He stood firmly over the headstone, and studied the flowers instead of the words.

“You were such a good friend, Sherlock,” he said, voice soft and crumbly; a warm cookie, “I am so glad that we met, and that we got to know each other.  I hope we’ll meet again, right?  _That_ would be heaven, if I could see you.”

His thoughts were slow and calm, as prescribed by everyone who knew him.

Sherlock loaded his gun, and stared obediently at his final target.

_Soon._


End file.
